


...when the universe expanded

by iv_kapelput



Series: and i'll meet you coming backwards [1]
Category: Spider-Man (Video Game 2018), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Ableism, Dysfunctional Family, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Flashbacks, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Italian Mafia, Kidnapping, Long-Term Relationship(s), Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Sibling Incest, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-13 16:22:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21171815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iv_kapelput/pseuds/iv_kapelput
Summary: “And… It is about my husband.”“Good.” he said. “I mean… Not good. Was he kidnapped? Or is it… Something else?” he added. “Either way, just give me the details and I’ll-”“His name is Mac Gargan.” she interrupted him; and in that moment not even his mask could hide Peter’s expression from her.“Scorpion’s married?!” he asked with disbelief. “Wh- H- Whow? I mean- WHAT?”





	...when the universe expanded

**Author's Note:**

> !!!!!!!!  
this one took FOREVER to write - but i'm happy with how it turned out. and most importantly - i'm very happy to finally be able to post it.  
in this one frankie tells spider-man about the very beginning of her relationship with mac - and they didn't really begin things on a friendly ground.   
if anything - this one gets rather dark in the second half, when don macchio makes an appearance. the slurs he uses are ableist and misogynist in nature; his lines were very difficult for me to write, since normally i tend to not use slurs - but at the same time i figured this might paint him as even cruder and more straightforward than hammerhead. what i was going for was a thoroughly rude, disrespectful person with no redeeming qualities.  
anything darker is only hinted at - but it's there, and it's going to be explored in future installments of the series.  
frankie's parents are - in most part - based on various members of my own family.

“Over here.” the woman called out to Spider-Man from the dark corner on the rooftop.

“I knew you’re there.” he replied, turning around to face her. “And I totally did _not _just spend five minutes looking for you. You’re… Good at hiding.”

“I know.” she replied, walking out of the shadows. “Or maybe you’re just bad at finding people in the shadows.”

“Let’s meet in the middle.” he said with a shrug, glancing at her from behind his mask, evaluating her quickly.

His Spider Sense didn’t go off, or even tingle; that was good. But then again, it also never tingled around Martin Li, or doctor Octavius; but it _did _tingle around Felicia every now and then. And Sable. And Yuri.

(His heart ached when he thought of Yuri Watanabe and what she had became; and he clenched his fists wondering why, just _why _didn’t the silent alert ring when he saw her face after she shot Hammerhead. He should’ve _known_; he should’ve recognized that pain in her eyes, that ice-cold fury, that dark, unfathomable depth.)

The woman standing before him had light grey eyes; there was no anger in them, just… Sadness. Melancholic, and heavy, and very, very familiar; he saw it in his own eyes after May’s death, and in Miles’s, and even mister Li’s; this sadness came from loss. It came from absence.

The woman was short and petite; she had black, slightly curly, chin-length hair, perfectly straight bangs that partially covered her - fashionably short, thick and round - eyebrows. Her skin was light brown; one could describe it also as dark beige. For Spider-Man, however, it was a light brown; warm and golden. 

She was dressed entirely in black; and on her left hand he spotted a simple, rather narrow, golden ring.

She also seemed just a bit familiar; either they’ve met before - or she simply looked like someone he had already met.

“So, what’s your name?” he asked, scratching the back of his head. “I… Don’t think there was any name on your profile. Right?”

(She commented on one of his Instagram posts, asking him to message her; her profile was completely empty, but she sounded genuine when she said it’s a matter of life and death.)

“I didn’t want for anyone to know who am I.” she said with a sigh. “Anyway. My name’s Francesca. Francesca Moretti-Sato.”

“Moretti?” Spider-Man repeated quickly. “Like… Don Cicero’s man?”

“Bartolomeo Moretti is my father.” she confirmed. “But… I’m not here because of my father. For all I care he can rot at the Riker’s.” she added with a shrug. “It’s what he deserves.”

“Alright, so… What’s the problem, citizen?” he asked, trying to not sound nervous. The woman’s calm, collected composure made him feel uneasy; usually people who needed his help were anxious, emotional; that kind of calm most often emanated from people who wanted to _kill _him. “Someone kidnapped your husband? Sorry.” he added quickly when she raised her eyebrows. “I… Saw that ring and just kind of assumed you’re married.”

“I _am _married.” she said; Spider-Man sighed with relief. “And… It _is _about my husband.”

“Good.” he said. “I mean… Not good. Was he kidnapped? Or is it… Something else?” he added. “Either way, just give me the details and I’ll-”

“His name is Mac Gargan.” she interrupted him; and in that moment not even his mask could hide Peter’s expression from her. 

“Scorpion’s _married_?!” he asked with disbelief. “Wh- H- _Whow?_ I mean- _WHAT?”_

Unable to contain all his emotions inside Spider-Man began to pace around the rooftop; Francesca watched him with crossed arms and raised eyebrows.

“I know _everything _about Scorpion.” he said finally, stopping and looking at her. “_Everything_! How did I miss _this_?!”

“It’s not like you two are friends.” she pointed out. “He tried to kill you… How many times?”

“I lost count after the fifth one.” he replied with a sigh. “But really. On my list of _Spider-Man’s enemies ranked from most to least marriageable_ Scorpion is… Second to last.”

“...and who’s first?”

“...don’t tell him I said that, but don Costa.” Spider-Man admitted, in hopes of making Francesca laugh, or at least smile.

It didn’t work; her stern expression did not change.

Spider-Man sighed.

“Scorpion’s out of control.” he said finally. “Something had happened to him. He had gotten… Considerably less pleasant to be around.”

“I know.” Francesca said, looking away. “I… To be honest, Spider-Man… I was hoping you’d be able to fix him.” she said finally. “Mac’s not himself. It’s like the man I married just… Disappeared. Literally. I hadn’t seen him since… When was the last time he got locked up at the Raft?”

Spider-Man scratched his head.

“Let’s see…” he muttered, trying to remember how much time had passed since then. “Octavius broke him and the rest of the Dirty Half Dozen out three months ago… And Scorps had been locked up there for six months…”

“Add one month, because I last saw him a month before the arrest.”

“So you hadn’t seen him in… Ten months. Hm. That’s… Quite a long time to not see your husband.” he said cautiously. “Not that I’d know, of course. I’m not married.”

“I don’t give a fuck about your marital status.” Francesca said sharply. “I only care about Mac. I hadn’t seen him in person in _ten months_. I haven’t _heard _from him. All I know is that he’s _alive - _and _dangerous_. And he wasn’t always like that. He was never _good_ \- but he also wasn’t a _monster_.”

“I’m going to have to trust you on this one.” he said cautiously; he never had a chance to witness Scorpion’s soft side. The venomous criminal had been around for about a decade; and he was always identically aggressive, ruthless and dangerous. Peter could hardly imagine Mac Gargan as a normal, married man; in fact - he couldn’t even imagine _anyone _falling in love with Mac Gargan, loving him hard enough to _marry _him.

(But then again - most of his foes probably didn’t expect him to be a lanky, awkward nerd with the attention span of a goldfish.)

“I need you to fix him.” Francesca said desperately. “Please, Spider-Man. I just… I just want to see him again.”

“This can be arranged, but… Even if I manage to fix him… I’m still going to have to bring him in.” he said cautiously. “I can’t let him get away.”

“I know.” she said quietly. “So… What’s the plan?”

“What?” he asked immediately. “I don’t even know what _happened _to him. I only know he's out there, dangerous, absolutely unhinged and married. Sorry." he added, seeing her annoyed expression. "I guess I just… Need some more time to process this. You know. The marriage. What was the wedding like? Was it scorpion themed? Was Rhino Scorpion's best man?" 

(He really couldn't help his excitement; it simply was too much for him to contain.) 

“No, of course Rhino wasn’t Mac’s best man.” she said slowly. “Mac _hates _Rhino.”

“Ah.” Spider-Man said, doing his best to hide his utter, complete disappointment. “But he _did _have a best man, right?”

“I’m not going to tell you shit about our wedding.” Francesca said sharply; and Spider-Man sighed. He couldn’t say her hostility hurt his feelings - but it sure felt a bit uncalled for. 

“Alright.” he said defensively. “No more questions about the wedding. Though we still need a way to figure out exactly what happened to Scorps. Also…”

“What?”

“Can you at _least _tell me what was he like when you married him?” he asked quickly. “Please?”

Francesca sighed.

“Fine.” she said; and Spider-Man had to fight off the urge to jump up in joy. “I’ll tell you what was he like when we first met.”

“_And _what was he like when you married him.”

“I’m not telling you _anything_ about the wedding.” she said firmly; and Spider-Man furrowed his brows, trying to figure out a reason behind her secrecy. “It was the best day of our lives. And it’s gonna stay this way. It’s gonna remain _ours_ and _ours alone_.”

Spider-Man sighed again.

“Alright, alright.” he said. “No more questions about the wedding.”

“That’s a good Avenger.” she said, turning around. “Come on. It’s getting cold.”

“Alright.” he said, cautiously following her into the building.

First they went through the top floor maintenance passageway; it was dimly lit and cluttered with a lot of brooms, mops, empty paint cans and paintbrushes. It was also astoundingly cold - even colder than outside.

“Can’t we walk?” Spider-Man asked as they approached the elevator; they were on the top floor of a high apartment building - it’d take ages for the elevator to reach them.

“No.” Francesca said, not looking at him. “I… Have to avoid physical strain.”

“Ah.” Spider-Man said, squinting slightly; she didn’t _look _sick or disabled - but he knew damn well many stamina-affecting conditions, like multiple sclerosis or Hashimoto’s thyroiditis can be completely invisible. “If you don’t mind me asking-”

“I do mind.” she interrupted him, turning her head to look at her. “Just so you know. I _do _mind.”

“Alright.” he said with a shrug. “But being an Avenger _does _come with perks. Like… S.H.I.E.L.D has good doctors. If you’re ill-”

“I’m not ill.” she interrupted him again;/ her right hand twitched slightly, as if she stopped herself from moving it. Her hand twitched, and her stomach squirmed slightly; maybe she was going to put her hand on her stomach? But why would she do that?

Spider-Man furrowed his brows.

“Are you pregnant?” he blurted out finally, just as the elevator door opened with a loud, piercing _ding!_

“What?” Francesca said, sounding - for the first time during their meeting - amused. “No! No, Christ, no. I told you I haven’t seen Mac in ten months. I can’t be pregnant.”

“In vitro is always an option.” he said, following her into the elevator. “And… So is… Hm, how do I put it without sounding like a jerk…”

“If you’re going to insinuate I cheated on Mac… Don’t.” she said calmly; it didn’t sound particularly menacing - but he got the hint.

And then proceeded to ignore it.

“I’m just saying the Mac Gargan _I _know is not… Very likeable.” he said with a shrug. “So if you _did _cheat on him-”

“For fuck’s sake.” she said sharply; she sounded _very _angry. “Do you want me to send Mac after you?”

“I thought you’re not in touch with him.” he said quickly, glancing at the small LCD screen above the floor buttons; they still have a couple floors to go.

“That’s because I’m not, but I’m pretty sure that if I run out of the building screaming… He’ll come. Sooner or later.” she said firmly; and there was something touching in her firm confidence in Mac Gargan’s loyalty. 

Spider-Man could say a lot of things about Mac Gargan; and most of them were bad - but he had to admit the man _is _determined. He was a fearsome foe when he fought for shallow, personal gain; and Spider-Man shuddered thinking about the ferocity he could plausibly put into a fight for something - or someone - he cared about.

“Alright, alright.” Spider-Man groaned. “Scorpion sure as hell is lucky to be married to such a loyal gal.”

“Funny.” she said as the elevator stopped at the ground floor. “He said the same thing a few times.”

Her apartment was located in the far corner of the ground floor; right next to the emergency exist that lead to a blind alley. A _very _convenient apartment location for someone married to a dangerous criminal who often escaped from jail and needed to lay low and about whose marriage no one knew.

As soon as they entered the apartment - Spider-Man heard loud, aggressive barking and snarling. 

Without thinking - he glued himself to the ceiling. 

“Brutus!” Francesca called out, grabbing the dog - a massive, muscular beast that looked like a cross-hybrid of a rottweiler and a pit bull - by its collar. “Calm down!”

The dog ignored her, and continued to furiously snarl at Spider-Man; he looked around frantically. He _could _try to web the dog to the floor - but it would only work for a short while, and most likely enrage the dog even more.

“_Sit_!” Francesca said sharply, tugging at the dog’s collar; suddenly - the dog stopped barking and sat down, perfectly silent and still.

“Good boy.” she added gently, patting the beast’s massive head gently with her tiny hand. “I know you hate Spider-Man, because your owner is an idiot and taught you that. But I let Spider-Man in. He’s not here to hurt me.”

Brutus let out a confused groan, followed by another quick bark.

“Be a good boy and leave the room.” Francesca said, letting go of the dog’s collar.

Brutus got up from the floor and - slowly, heavily, majestically - walked out of the room.

“That’s Brutus.” Francesca said, looking up at Spider-Man, still tightly glued to her ceiling. “He’s Mac’s. I… Take care of him whenever Mac’s… Indisposed.”

“And when he’s _not _indisposed?” Spider-Man asked, not budging from his safe spot. “Lemme guess, what would Scorps do with a dog… Ah, of course. Maggia dog fights. Did I guess?”

“You’re way dumber than I thought. Get down.”

“No, thank you.” Spider-Man said, hugging the ceiling even tighter. “I’m good up here.”

(The dog’s barking and sharp, vicious teeth brought back the memories of his early days as a vigilante; back then the cops were not too fond of him. Back then their dogs ran after him, and he’d sometimes wake up in the middle of the night screaming from the imaginary pain of sharp teeth piercing his skin with a snarl.)

“Alright.” she said with a shrug. “Suit yourself.”

From his position, Spider-Man had a clear view of Francesca’s living room; it seemed perfectly normal. It was perfectly average in size, at least for a Manhattan apartment; the walls were painted white, and it was tastefully furnished with sleek, modern and undoubtedly expensive black furniture. There were some pictures on the walls - and none of them of Mac Gargan or Bartolomeo Moretti, Francesca’s father.

“So.” he said, looking at the woman. “You and Scorps. When did you two meet?”

Francesca shot him a tight lipped smile; and finally - she started talking.

***

They met exactly ten years earlier.

Back then, Mac worked for don Macchio - and Francesca helped her mother keep her bakery together.

Back then, they were both very different people; and when they first met - none of them as much as considered the slightest possibility of ever marrying the other one.

Back then, Frankie-

***

_“Can I call you that?”_

_“Can you call me… What?”_

_“Frankie. Can I call you that?”_

_“Uh, yeah? Just don’t call me Fran.”_

_“You don’t like Fran Drescher?”_

_“I just don’t like being called that, alright?”_

_“Alright, alright. Sorry I asked.”_

***

It was a warm autumn day when they first met; a sunny afternoon.

That day, Frankie was in charge of her mother’s dream bakery - again.

Allegedly, that bakery - a small, cutesy place like many others, making and selling exclusively Italian and French pastries - was Kiyomi’s biggest dream ever since she first traveled to Europe with Bartolomeo, where she met his parents and fell in love with freshly baked croissants and ricotta-filled cannolis. Allegedly Kiyomi had always wanted to be a baker; but Frankie doubted that. She couldn’t remember when was the last time her mother actually stepped into her own damn bakery; most of the time it was just Frankie taking care of everything, from shipments to baking to serving customers.

She hated it.

She hated being stuck there during the day, having her hands smell of butter and vanilla every day, not living her own life; she despised it. The bakery was her mother’s dream; but it was painfully obvious that Kiyomi only wanted to _own _a baker, rather than _run _it. She went out and about with her life, all while Frankie - young and frustrated - was stuck there, baking croissants and layering tiramisus. At the age of twenty Frankie had already mastered the art of making puff pastry from scratch; and she despised it.

The sound of the bell hanging right above the door brought Frankie’s attention to the man who entered the bakery.

He was tall and muscular; instantly Frankie had decided that he has the strongest jawline she had ever seen. He had a prominent, hooked nose and thin, crooked lips; his eyes were almost impossibly dark and he had short, dark hair. _Handsome_, Frankie decided, absentmindedly watching him from behind the counter. He was wearing a dark, simple suit; and something about the way he fixed his tie almost made her knees weak. _Nice hands. Should I write my number down on the receipt?_

The man slowly walked from glass-case to glass-case, looking at displayed pastries; Frankie watched him silently, resting her cheek against the ball of her hand.

“Can I help you?” she asked finally. “Maybe I can suggest something, or-”

“I’m good.” the man interrupted her; and Frankie raised her eyebrows, still watching him. His voice was a tad weird; a bit too smooth, a bit too high pitched to match his wide shoulders and rough hands - but it was nice. “You the owner?”

“Nope.” Frankie said, quickly glancing at his hands; big and rough, and she had to stop herself from biting her lip and from thinking how would they feel against her skin. Clearly the man didn’t know who is she - so maybe she really could try giving him her number. “My mother is.”

“Cool.” he said, looking at the mini raspberry galettes. “That’s a nice place.”

Frankie squinted, immediately realizing who the man is and why is he in her mother’s bakery.

“Yep.” she agreed; a small group of high schoolers from a nearby school came in, chatting amongst themselves. They were regular customers; always very polite and pleasant. “Sup Donnie, sup Marco, sup Lola.”

“Good afternoon.” they murmured in response.

“Go on.” the man said, stepping aside. “I’m still decidin’. I don’t want to hold the line.” he added, glancing at Frankie; she ignored him, instead focusing on the customers. 

Her thoughts raced through her head; she _knew _he’s from Maggia. A sharply dressed, muscular man in a cutesy bakery, asking about its owner and calling it _a nice place_; if he wasn’t a Maggia enforcer - Wilson Fisk wasn’t corrupt. Undoubtedly the man was going to get unpleasant; and even though she despised everything about Crust And Cream - she didn’t really want to see it demolished by a Maggia thug.

(Mostly because she knew she’d be blamed for it anyway.

She had no weapons, and her phone was in another room; she could always run off to another room and lock the door, buying herself a few moments to call 911 - but she quickly abandoned that idea. The man seemed to be muscular and strong, and the door to the back door were flimsy and cheap; he’d barge in without an issue.

Only after Donnie, Marco and Lola had left with their pastries Frankie realized she could’ve try scribbling a note down on the parchment paper she used for wrapping; the sheets were stored under the counter, so she could easily pretend she has to bring a new batch.

“Fuck.” she muttered as the door closed behind the group. “Shit.”

The man walked up to the door and flipped the small hanging plate that informed the customers whether the bakery is open or closed.

“Don’t do that.” Frankie said, feeling more and more uneasy. “We’re… Still open.”

(There was a pastry knife in the display cabinet on her left; she wondered if she’d be able to grab it before he notices, or gets across the counter between them.)

“Not for the next five minutes.” he said, turning around. “What’s your name?”

“You can look it up.” she replied, doing her best to stop herself from glancing in the direction of the knife. “I’m the owner’s daughter.”

“Alright.” he said with a shrug. “So, nameless girl… Be honest with me. Where is he?”

_What?_

“What?” she said out loud, looking at him in confusion. 

He snickered.

“Oh, you’re great at playin’ dumb.” he said, resting his elbows on the counter; their faces were inches away from each other and unfortunately - he was still hot. She could see a scar running across the bridge of his nose, and dark circles under his eyes and a small scar crooking his thin upper lip. “Come on now.” he added, almost teasingly. “Be honest with me. Where is he?”

“Where’s _who_?” she asked; a suspicion began forming at the back of her head. “Who are you?”

“That’s a real nice place you’ve got ‘ere.” the man said, ignoring her questions; he looked around the bakery, before once more focusing his dark eyes on her. “It’d be a real shame if something _bad _happened to it.”

“It would.” she agreed slowly. “I know you’re from the Maggia. Get lost. We’re… We’re under don Cicero’s protection.” she said quickly; and instantly regretted it, when the man laughed again. She couldn’t blame him; of all the Maggia families her family was involved with - she _had _to pick don Cicero. The lawyer. The banker. The chubby man in a sweater vest who never got his hands dirty. Sure, her father’s don was, after all, a Maggia don, and a person who dealt in favors and debts and human gratitude and ruthless, merciless executions of debts - but he didn’t deal in protecting small businesses. He protected corporations, and other dons, and millionnaires; not small, cutesy bakeries. 

“Good one.” the man said, not at all impressed. “You’re funny… But I’m not ‘ere for the comedy night. _Where is he?_”

_He’s a Maggia thug, and he’s searching for a b-_

_ANGELO._

She couldn’t believe connecting the dots took her so long. _Of course _the man was searching for Angelo Fortunato; but how did he know he’s her fiance? Their engagement was not a public matter, and was meant for Vicente Fortunato’s eyes only. So how did this man know to come to _her _in search of Angelo? Was it Baldassario? Did… Did they get Baldassario?

_Fuck. Shit shit shit shit fuck shit._

“I don’t know what are you talking about.” she said, desperately doing her best to not sound terrified. “I think y… You should l… Leave.” she stuttered out, reaching for the pastry knife.

She managed to snatch it without dropping it; the man laughed again.

“Oh, this is adorable.” he said, sounding sincerely amused; it was infuriating. She wanted to cut his face with the jagged blade; to push it through his skin, to carve his heart out. How dared he mock her? Make fun of her trembling confidence, her shaky desperation? “Put this down before you cut yourself.”

“Leave.” she repeated. “I’l… I’ll scream.”

“You’re stubborn.” he stated, not budging from his spot right in front of her. “I like that.”

Without taking his - calculating, piercing, mesmerizing - eyes off her, he reached into the pocket of his jacket; Frankie gripped the knife tightly.

“Relax.” he added, pulling out a wallet. “I’ll have five of those.” he said, pointing at the raspberry galettes he had been eyeing earlier; she baked them shortly before he showed up. In her opinion, they were perfect; crunchy and sweet and a bit tart and perfectly buttery. As much as she hated baking - she kind of liked making galettes; the dough was ready in a snap and she didn’t have to meticulously form each and every one with her fingertips. They could be a little bit uneven, a bit wonky; and the fillings were almost ridiculously easy to make. For the raspberry ones, all she had to do was to macerate some raspberries in grapefruit juice; then she added some simple syrup with a drop or two of vanilla extract - and into the oven everything went.

Without a word, she packed and handed him the galettes.

“How m-”

“It’s on the house.” she interrupted him. “Now take them… And leave.”

He shot her a wide, wolfish grin; his eyes remained cold and calculating.

“Thank you.” ha said, finally turning around. “See you around.”

“In your dreams.” she shot back; now that he moved away she regained some of her confidence. “Dickhead.”

Over his shoulder he shot her one last grin; and left, without flipping the _open-closed _plate back to _open_.

Maybe for the better; as soon as the door closed behind him Frankie’s legs gave up and she collapsed onto the tiled floor.

“Fuck!” she exclaimed loudly, hiding her face in her hands. “FUCK! SHIT! FUCKING HELL!” she screamed in frustration.

Up to this point, everything was going smoothly, and she was about to finally cut her relatives off and start living on her own; but then _something_ had to go wrong. Somehow people from the Maggia learned of her engagement to Angelo Fortunato; it was supposed to be a secret, a secret only them and Angelo’s family knew.

“I should call him.” she muttered to herself, not moving her hands away from her face. “I should… I should…”

_What should I do?_

In silence, Frankie considered the possibilities.

Everyone knew the newly crowned don Macchio would love to see the Fortunato famiglia crash and burn; so the man searching for Angelo was, most likely, sent by Nicolas Macchio. However, this could also be Hammerhead’s doing; even though Frankie doubted that. Hammerhead - as suggested by his very name - was not big on subtlety; if he wanted to find Angelo through Frankie - she’d already be missing a finger or two. Plausibly, this _could _be a joint operation, a prelude to overthrowing Vicente Fortunato; or maybe it was all a test? Maybe the man was sent by Vicente himself, to check if Frankie can be trusted, if she won’t break in the face of danger that came with marrying into a Maggia family? Admittedly, that was her preferred option; no real danger, just a don checking if his son’s fiancée can be trusted.

“Of course I can be trusted.” she muttered to herself, getting up from the floor. 

Her legs were still a bit shaky; but she managed to get into the back room, where her phone - a slightly battered iPhone - was. 

“Come on.” she muttered, calling Angelo. “Pick the fuck up you fucking-”

It took Angelo a long, long while to finally pick up.

“Hey, F-”

“Shut up.” she interrupted him immediately. “And don’t. Say. A. Word. To. Baldassario. The Maggia knows about us. Some weird man came into the bakery and wanted to know where are you. Go straight to your father. He’ll know what to do.” she said quickly; she almost didn’t pause between words. “Got it?”

“Geez, Frankie.” Angelo said, sounding _very _confused; she could clearly _see _the confusion on his round, angelic face. “Alright, alright. I’ll do it.”

“Great.” she said, feeling almost relieved. “Take care, Angel.”

She hung up without waiting for his response. The less they talked, the better for him; who knows - maybe whoever was looking for him had already found a way to eavesdrop on his conversations? 

“Fucking _shit_.” she muttered, hiding her face in her hands again. “Shit. Shitshitshitshit.”

_Breathe in_, she told herself, trying to pull herself together. _Breathe out. Breathe i-_

“Fran!” her mother called out to her sharply, instantly snapping her out of her frantic state. “Are you there?” she asked, sounding impatient.

“I’m here, mother.” Frankie replied in Japanese, getting up from the floor; for whatever reason - Kiyomi had always insisted her children talked to their parents in their native languages. Frankie had always addressed her mother as _okaa-san_; and in return - Kiyomi simply called her _Fran_. Just _Fran_; all while Takeshi - Frankie’s older brother - was referred to as _Takeshi-kun, _or _Shi-chan_. “Welcome back.”

“Why is the bakery closed?” Kiyomi asked, flipping the plate. “You know this is when we get the most customers during the day.”

“I’m sorry, mother.” Frankie replied quietly. “But there was an emergency-”

“Don’t give me excuses, Fran.” Kiyomi interrupted her sharply; she looked at Frankie and her face expressed only disappointment. “I asked you to take care of the bakery while I’m gone. That means serving the customers. But there won’t be any customers if the bakery is _closed_, silly girl.”

“I’m sorry.” Frankie repeated with a sigh; and Kiyomi’s face lightened up. “I’ll… I’ll do better next time.”

(_You’re always away, mother. When was the last time you greeted a customer, or rolled up a croissant?_)

“That’s my girl.” Kiyomi said, almost lovingly, almost gently; and Frankie’s heart ached from how badly she wanted for the affection to be there.

By all means, Kiyomi wasn’t a bad person; she simply wasn’t that great of a mother - because she never really wanted to _be _a mother. She seemed to enjoy having children, and she definitely loved Takeshi; but Frankie never got to experience any genuine motherly love from Kiyomi.

Initially, Frankie blamed it on Kiyomi’s upbringing - she was a Japanese woman, through and through. Her parents were strict and conservative when it came to raising their daughter; but she quickly realized this can’t be it. Even Kiyomi’s parents - rigid and unyielding - loved their daughter; so clearly - that lack of love did not come from them.

***

_“I’m… Sorry to hear that.”_

_“Don’t be. It’s all in the past now.”_

_“Is it though?”_

_“Don’t try to psychoanalyze me, Spider-Man.”_

_“Because I’m not gonna like what I find?”_

_“No, because you’re going to be disappointed. I know what you’re thinking right now. Her parents didn’t love her, so she went and hooked up with someone they’d hate. Her parents didn’t love her, so she has no idea what love is. Her parents didn’t love her, and neither does Mac Gargan.”_

_“I wasn’t thinking that. I… Do my best to not judge people who confide in me. After all, who am I to judge? I’m just a guy dressed up as a spider, beating up guys dressed up as a rhino, and a scorpion, or a dude who became a really big Bionicle because he wanted to get real strong.”_

_“...anyway.”_

***

The reason behind Kiyomi’s lack of love was perfectly cruel in its simplicity; she never wanted to have children.

She married a man who dreamed of having a big family; and Kiyomi gave in to his dreams. She gave birth to his son, and fell in love with him; she hardly had to do anything related to child care, as Bartolomeo did everything without her even asking. She fell in love with Takeshi’s childish purity, and obedience, and she fell in love with how his teachers praised him, and with how she could brag her son is perfect. She never _wanted _him, but she loved him still; he was lucky.

When Frankie was born - Bartolomeo no longer could relieve Kiyomi of her parental duties. He had tons of work to do, and barely ever was home; and Kiyomi found herself having to raise a daughter she never wanted, having to take care of an infant she was disgusted with, having to put up with Frankie’s childishness. 

***

_“It’s… An ugly story. Can I move on now?”_

_“Of course you can. I get the gist of it anyway - you had a crappy mother and an absent father. And, since your mother had to raise you against her will… She later decided it’s only fair that you help her at the bakery. And you obliged, being desperate for love and approval.”_

_“I… Really don’t like the fact you got it right.”_

_“It’s a gift. And a curse. A nightmare dressed like a daydream, if you will.”_

_“...in any case, my mother never really loved me. And it all sounds so weird when I just talk about it. So… Shallow. Flat.”_

***

“Ah, we’re out of mascarpone again.” Kiyomi sighed; that was her only real contribution to the bakery’s day-to-day existence: dropping in every now and then to check the numbers in the ledger and the supplies in the storage room. She was very thorough, and persistent; she was a pain in the ass, frequently making Frankie feel incompetent. “And almonds.”

“I know, mother.” Frankie replied with a sigh, putting some brioche dough that needed proving and a freshly shaped flat square of butter for making puff pastry into the fridge. “We have an arrangement with the supplier, remember? They’ll deliver everything tomorrow, first thing in the morning.”

“Or they won’t.” Kayomi countered. “You can’t rely on anyone these days.”

“Then go shopping. The stores are still open.” Frankie replied; she already knew what is her mother going to say next. 

“I’m tired.” Kiyomi sighed, just as Frankie expected her to. “And it doesn’t seem like you were very busy today.” she added; and Frankie sighed, knowing there’s no point in showing her the actual sales ledger. “Come on. Enough slacking off, we _need _those almonds.”

“We’ll get them tomorrow.” Frankie said anxiously. “I just… I’d rather _not _go out tonight. There was a man here, and he-”

“Excuses, excuses.” Kiyomi interrupted her with a sigh and a dismissive hand wave. “Is it really so hard to just go out and buy some almonds, Fran? I had a long day. I’m tired.”

Frankie opened and closed her mouth silently.

“Yes, mother.” she said quietly. “I’ll… I’ll go get those almonds.”

Kiyomi smiled again; and Frankie felt like she might burst into tears if she spends just a second longer talking to her mother. She hated that feeling, that blind desperation, that constant hunger for approval, for affection, for actual attention. It was there, it was always there; and it was never satisfied. Every day Frankie tortured herself; and every night she fell asleep holding tightly onto the hope Angelo Fortunato doesn’t break their agreement. 

Her faux love for his father’s favor; it was a fair exchange. For whatever reason, Angelo was _very _hesitant to come out to his father; in fact - he didn’t want to do it at all, at least for the next couple years. He practically begged Frankie - his best friend since middle school - to pretend to be his girlfriend in front of his father. In exchange - he claimed Vicente would be more than willing to assist her in beginning a new life, away from her parents, away from her brother.

Her father - signore Bartolomeo Moretti - was a trusted _consigliere _of don Cesare Cicero, Vicente Fortunato’s second most loyal right-hand don; but Angelo assured her that, above everything else, his father is a family man. Once Frankie became Angelo’s wife - _only for a few months_, Angelo assured her when he first presented his plan to her, _and then I’ll come out and you can act all heartbroken if you want to really get to my pops, I mean, he might be a gangster, but he still can’t say no to a crying girl - _she’d be a part of Vicente’s actual _family_; she’d be more important to him than than don Cicero’s quiet, troubled _consigliere_. 

Their arrangement was nearly ideal; the only downside was that they had to be careful when away from don Fortunato, and that they had to avoid hooking up with people they were _actually _into; but it wasn’t _that _much of a problem. Frankie practically didn’t have a life outside of school and the bakery anyway; and Angelo was mostly closeted, only revealing his secret to Frankie.

***

_“Huh.”_

_“Yeah?”_

_“So you were fake-engaged to don Fortunato’s son, because Angelo was afraid of coming out as gay. That’s… Kind of sad.”_

_“It wasn’t that bad, honestly. Mostly because I got to see don Fortunato up close quite regularly. In high school I kind of had a crush on him.”_

_“...wow. Now that’s a sentence I was not expecting to hear.”_

_“I was Angelo’s best friend. I got to see don Vicente Fortunato in private. And he was… Very polite. Charming. And he always loved his wife. I remember seeing him and Marisol and realizing - oh, THAT’S love. Oh, I want this. Hell yeah.”_

_“That’s… Well, I’m definitely not going to say it’s reasonable. But it kind of makes sense. Are you still in touch with Angelo?”_

_“Depends on why you ask.”_

_“I’m just curious. I heard he doesn’t want to be his father’s successor as a don, and I was wondering-”_

_“It has nothing to do with Angelo being gay. Vicente took it… Really well. He just accepted it. Which was definitely not how any of us expected him to take it.”_

***

She went out to get the fucking almonds; and nothing happened - even though she felt watched all the time.

She kept looking around, and glancing over her shoulder, her eyes searching for the tall man who visited the bakery earlier - but to no avail. He was nowhere to be seen; he wasn’t lurking in the shadows and he wasn’t pretending to be reading labels in the bulk aisle at the grocery store.

And yet - she could feel someone’s eyes on her. She could feel someone watching her every move.

By the time she got back to the bakery - her mother was already gone. Frankie groaned and rolled her eyes, realizing she hadn’t even _tried _to clean up the mess left in the supply room and the back room and on the counter; she simply left everything as it was - along with a note _asking _Frankie if she can take care of the bakery tomorrow as well.

“Sure.” Frankie muttered to herself, crumpling the note and throwing it into the garbage bin. “Because fuck me and _my _plans, right?”

***

_“So, are you going to ask why didn’t I just refuse to take care of the bakery all the time?”_

_“Because you desperately wanted her to love you. We… Already established that. But I can’t help but wonder… What was your mother doing?”_

_“I asked myself the same question. I… Don’t know. She never told me, and I never investigated.”_

_“She was married to a Maggia consigliere. If you want, I can-”_

_“Investigate? Don’t waste your time, Spider-Man. She had nothing to do with whatever happened to Mac.”_

_“If you say so. What about your father though? Or… Your brother?”_

_“Do you want to know more about Mac Gargan from ten years ago, or do you want me to get Brutus to come here and chase you out?”_

_“Point taken.”_

***

The man snatched her away when she was walking home.

That night, she made the fatal mistake of using a dark alley as a shortcut; sure, that’s what you get for crossing dark New York alleys after dark - but that one was located in a good, rich neighborhood. Nothing ever happened in that particular alley, mostly because it just so happened to be at the back of don Fortunato’s favorite restaurant. The place - as well as the surrounding area - was supposed to be even more secure, than mayor Osborn’s office; so at first - Frankie could swear she’s hallucinating.

“Hey there, nameless girl.” the man said, stepping out of the shadows; he was still tall and muscular and - compared to her - was huge like a mountain.

Frankie clenched her teeth, deciding he’s not there, that he’s just a figment of her imagination; she didn’t respond and instead tried to simply walk past him.

“Goin’ somewhere?” he asked, putting his - very real, very physical - hand on her trembling shoulder.

_Shit._

“Away from you.” she said, glaring up at him. “Get lost, creep.”

He laughed, sending a chill down her spine.

“Oh, you’re hilarious.” he said, shaking his head. “C’mon. We have much to discuss.”

“Like hell we do.” she snarled in response; she put her right hand in her pocket, searching for her knife. It was small, and a bit flimsy, and cheap - but it was still better than nothing. “Now _get lost_, before I get unpleasant.” she added, finally fishing the knife out; she almost dropped it while opening it - and the man laughed again.

“Cute.” he said, looking at her - only slightly trembling - hand. “Watch it, girl. You might cut yourself.”

“Leave me alone!” she said angrily; her voice broke a bit and her words were whiny and high pitched. “Or… Or…”

“Or what?” the man asked, sounding almost genuinely curious. “You’re gonna scream?” he asked mockingly - and for Frankie that mocking tone of his was the last straw.

“You _wish_.” she snarled, baring her teeth.

Quickly - and admittedly more than a bit recklessly - she stabbed his hand with her knife. The blade went right through his skin and muscles, and she could feel it piercing her own skin; but she didn’t care.

“_FUCK!_” the man screamed, snatching his hand away, along with her knife. “_YOU LITTLE FUCKING-”_

“_FUCK. OFF!”_ Frankie yelled in response, furiously kicking him in the shin. That day - due to having to spend the whole day standing behind the counter - she was wearing plain, classic, black Converse sneakers; but her kick was enough make the man lose his balance. Quickly she elbowed him in the solar plexus and - for good measure - added a swift, angry kick right between his legs; he yelped and whined and she turned around and ran away. The man blocked her path to the main street; so Frankie ran into the dark labyrinth of narrow alleyways. She ran without thinking, her feet hitting the ground in a perfect, pounding rhythm; her adrenaline carried her like a wind as she clenched her teeth, ignoring the blunt, pulsing pain in her freshly stabbed shoulder.

“Fuck.” she panted out, realizing she had ran into a dead end. She turned around, ready to run off again; and she froze in place, realizing the man she was running from was standing a few steps from her.

He looked _pissed_; and everything seemed to slow down to snail’s pace as she fixed her horrified gaze on him.

“You fucked up my hand.” he said through gritted teeth; and she noticed he had wrapped his bleeding hand with his tie. She could see blood on his white shirt; and when he took a step towards her - Frankie instinctively took a step back. 

Her back hit the wall; and the man bared his teeth in a horrifying, wide grin.

***

_“...how… Romantic?”_

_“I… Can’t say it was love at the first sight.”_

_“Yeah. Buuut, so far… That’s the Mac Gargan I know. Though I didn’t know he ever worked for the Maggia.”_

_“Really?”_

_“Yeah. I thought he worked… Solo. And just for himself.”_

_“Heh. He joined the Maggia after a few years of working solo… And then he went solo again. And that’s when you first met him. Also, get down from my ceiling.”_

_“No thanks, I’m good up here. Yo… His dog won’t get me up here.”_

_“Except he will.”_

_“...what?!”_

_“He can jump very high… And he knows he’ll jump higher if he bounces from the couch.”_

_“...that’s… Reassuring.”_

_“He’s a good boy. He’s only going to attack you if I tell him to… Or if he sees you being shady when I’m standing with my back to you. Wait! Don’t sit here. He’ll rip your throat out if you sit here.”_

_“...back onto the ceiling then.”_

***

“You fucked up my hand.” he said through gritted teeth; Frankie’s back hit the wall and she could swear her knees are about to give up. Her heart was pounding, and she was trembling; he cornered her - and suddenly she found herself unable to even _speak_. “You fucking _brat_.”

“G-get away from me.” she finally stuttered out when he took another step towards her; his grin grew even wider. “I-I’ll scream!”

“Oh, by all means, do go on.” the man said mockingly with a shrug. “I like making people scream.”

Frankie’s eyes widened.

_he’s going to take me he’s going to torture me oh god no no no no_

“_HELP!_” she screamed atop of her lungs; ber brain drew a panicked blank. 

In a fit of desperation, she tried to run past the man; effortlessly he grabbed her with his unharmed hand and slammed her against the wall, his fingers wrapped around her throat. His grip was tight - almost choking, almost brutal, almost painful.

Almost.

She only realized that days later; that he could easily hurt her in that alley - but he didn’t. Maybe it meant something - but back then she couldn’t care less. Back then all he was to her was a Maggia thug; a persistent, dangerous stalker holding her by her throat in a dark alley as she screamed for help and kicked him and clawed at his hand with her long, sharp nails.

And no one helped her, despite her screams; people of New York knew better than to venture into dark alleys after the dawn. He knew to ignore the siren song of someone screaming for help. They knew it’ll only lead to their own despair.

Eventually - as she screamed - he sprayed something into her mouth with his bleeding hand. 

It tasted like rubbing alcohol; and Frankie gasped and coughed, feeling it foam slightly in her mouth.

“W-what are you doing?” she muttered; her tongue and lips were getting unpleasantly numb, and her thoughts and vision were getting blurry. “W-what…”

“Sleeping spray.” he said, letting go of her; she slowly slid down onto the ground, her legs finally having given up. 

She put up no resistance when he picked her up and threw her over his shoulder; the last thing she saw before dozing off were his legs. She could hear him whistling; but she couldn’t focus for long enough to recognize the melody.

She had a dream during that forced slumber; it was shapeless and pictureless and soundless. Only darkness - and uncertainty, persistent, unyielding, underlying.

***

She woke up abruptly and with a gasp.

She was in a small room; the stone walls were not decorated with anything. There was no window; and she couldn’t see any door either. The room was illuminated with a single light bulb, dangling from the ceiling; and it took Frankie a long, drowsy moment to realize she’s tied to a metal chair.

“Where am I?” she muttered to herself, looking around; her vision was still rather blurry, and she had to focus to actually see anything. She could hear some weird, electronic sounds coming from behind her; but she found herself unable to turn her head, as something was keeping it in place, rendering her immobile - and helpless. With her arms tied behind her back, her legs tied to the legs of the chair and her head immobilized by what felt like a leather harness - Frankie could only open her mouth.

“Shit.” she muttered, wincing; she could feel a sharp, stinging headache slowly amplifying in her skull. “H-hello? Is anyone here?”

“Unfortunately, yeah.” someone replied; and she winced again, realizing it’s the man who abducted her. “Gimme a sec.”

“What are you doing?” she asked, once again trying to look over her shoulder. The sounds resumed; and Frankie squinted. She could _almost _recognize them; almost.

“Playing Crash Bandicoot.” the man replied; and Frankie groaned. “Your screen’s busted, by the way. You should get it fixed.”

“Don’t touch my phone.” she replied, once again trying to look at him; he snickered - and she groaned again, futilely struggling in her bonds. “What the fuck are you laughing at? You’re lucky I’m tied up, otherwise-”

“Undoubtedly.” he interrupted her; he pulled up a chair for himself and sat down in front of her, resting his chest and elbows against the backrest. “Slept well?” he asked with an obnoxious smirk that made her blood boil.

“Fuck you.” she replied; her heart was pounding in her chest as she tried to keep her breath steady, to hide how terrified she really was. Alone, helpless, her fate in hands of some psycho - it was not an ideal situation. Suddenly she regretted saying _fuck_ _no _to her father’s suggestion to put a tracking chip under her skin; back then it felt invasive and unnecessary - back then she was sure she’s gonna be fine with a folding knife in her pocket. “Let me go, you fucking _freak_. You have no fucking idea who the fuck are you messing with.” she snarled, trying to keep her voice from shaking, from breaking, from betraying her panic.

He rested his chin against his fist, looking at her mockingly.

“By all means, do go on.” he said calmly. “And tell me, who am I messing with?”

She bared her teeth, and tried to spit at him; but her throat and her tongue and the inside of her mouth were dry and her saliva was disgustingly thick and it ended up on her chin instead.

The man laughed again.

“Cute.” he said, getting up from the chair; she squirmed when he walked past her. She could hear some rustling behind her; and her breath quickened as her thoughts raced, her imagination coming up with things he could be searching for, things he was going to do to her-

“Thirsty?” he asked, sitting back down; he was holding a bottle of water, with a straw sticking out of it.

“What’s the catch?” she asked, trying to ignore the bottle. “You trying to drug me, freak?”

“If I wanted you drugged up, you’d be drugged up already.” he replied, moving the bottle closer to her face; the straw poked her pursed lips, and for a moment Frankie stared at the man in silence.

Finally - she took a small, cautious sip, tasting water for anything suspicious. The water tasted fine - so she drank it, doing her best to avoid eye contact with the man.

Once Frankie drank everything, the man carelessly threw the bottle away over his shoulder.

“Untie me.” Frankie demanded. “And let me go. You’re fucking with people you _really _don’t want to be fucking with.”

“Your father is don Cicero’s _consigliere_.” the man said with a shrug. “Not really the most menacing job.”

So he knew who her father is. It was interesting - and scary. 

“Don Cicero’s more dangerous than you think.” Frankie said desperately. “A-and he cares about his men. I-if you let me go-”

“Then I’ll never get what I need out of you. I don’t care about don Cicero’s favor, or whatever you think you can offer me.” the man said, glaring at her. “I’ve money. I’ve protection. I’ve people who owe me favors.”

“Then what do you want from me?”

“Ah, but I already told ya.” he said, resting his scruffy cheek against the ball of his hand. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know what are you talking about.” Frankie replied exasperatedly. “Where’s _who_? You keep asking me _where is he_ \- but I don’t even know _who _the fuck are you looking for.”

“Really?” the man asked, tilting his head slightly. “I thought it’s obvious.”

“It’s really not.” Frankie replied instantly, her heart pounding, her ears filled with the panicked song of her blood. “I’m not a mind reader.”

_even though i am a freak_

***

_“I’m sorry, what?”_

_“Hm?”_

_“What was that line?”_

_“...what line?”_

_“About you being a freak. What was that about?”_

_“Oh, you know. Typical young adult angst.”_

***

“You’re stubborn.” the man stated; and Frankie gulped nervously. “It’s a shame you insist on protectin’ a man like him.”

“Look who’s talking.” she shot back; a new wave of dread was building up inside of her. Clearly, the man was not after Angelo; so perhaps - he was after a much bigger fish. After all - why waste time on the don’s son, when you can go after the don himself? “You’re a _nobody_.”

“Well, well.” the man said, shooting her a sharp-toothed grin. “So, girl. Do you know who am I after… Or do you insist on playin’ dumb?”

“For the last time - I have _no idea_ what are you talking about.” she said, desperately glancing over his shoulder in search of an inspiration for a way out of this mess. “It’d be much simpler if you just _told me_.”

“And if I tell you?” the man asked. “What then? Are you going to tell me go fuck myself?”

_jesus fucking CHRIST._

“Yes.” Frankie replied, trying to shrug; but with her hands tied behind her back, and her torso tied up to the back of the chair - it was impossible. “But at least I’ll know what exactly am I _not _helping you with.”

“Cute.” the man said; and Frankie bared her teeth in annoyance. _Cute, cute, cute. Fuck off._ “How’s your arm?” he asked suddenly - and Frankie squinted in silent confusion.

“What?” she asked finally, trying to figure out what is he talking about. “How’s my… _Oh._” she said, finally remembering the dark alley, the knife going through his hand, its tip piercing her own skin as well. “Wait. Didn’t I… Stab your hand?”

“Yeah. You did.” he said, taking his injured hand out of his pocket; it was tightly bandaged - but that didn’t stop him from using it to fish out a cigarette and lighting it. “Doc says I’m lucky the blade was so thin. You almost cut my nerves, or somethin’.”

“I’ll try harder next time.” Frankie said, trying to turn her head to look at her injured shoulder; for whatever reason - it didn’t hurt. She could definitely _feel _her arm, and her fingers, so she _knew _it’s still there - but it didn’t hurt, and she couldn’t even _look _at it. “Shit. I can’t see my arm.”

“I know. But does it hurt?”

“Yeah.” she lied instantly. “It… It hurts. Badly.”

The man let out a short, dry snicker.

“God, what happened to you?” he asked, exhaling a cloud of cigarette smoke. “Up until this point you were such a convincing liar. You arm’s _fine_, by the way. You barely poked yourself… All while nearly _destroying _my hand.”

“Good. You don’t deserve any actual effort from me.”

“Then it’s a pity I’m gonna need your most convincing, pleading voice.” the man said with a shrug, exhaling another cloud of smoke. “See… I’m looking for your father.”

_what?_

“What?” Frankie asked, both relieved and horrified. The fact the man was not after Angelo, or his father, was most definitely a relief; but the truth was bitter and scary. He wanted her father; her fucking _dad_. “F-fuck you. Get h-him yourself.”

“Ah, but I can’t.” the man said, rolling his eyes. “You said it yourself - don Cicero _does _care for his men… And this is where _you _come into play.”

“Go fuck yourself. I’m not helping you.”

“You sound awfully confident for someone tied to a chair and locked in a room with a Maggia soldier.” the man pointed out; and Frankie let out a dry, bitter snicker.

“You’re not gonna torture me.” she said, hoping he can’t hear the faux notes in her confidence. “So far you hadn’t laid a finger on me. You’re scared, _freak_. You’re scared of what might happen to you if Cicero finds out you hurt the daughter of his _consigliere_. You know he’s gonna retaliate, and you _know _he’s in cahoots with the Costa and Fortunato _famiglias_. And I’m over here, lookin’ like the fucking Helen of Troy. You touch me - you’re _dead_.”

“Cute.” the man said; and Frankie wished she could rip his throat out with her teeth. “Who says I need to touch you to torture you? I could just gag and blindfold you… And leave you here, alone, for a day or two. Or maybe leave you as you are… But leave some food and water on the table. There are _many _ways to torture a person. Not all of them involve knives, or needles, or whatever your idea of _torture tools _is.”

Frankie pursed her lips, feeling her - shaky, feeble, transparent - confidence leave her, like air leaves a released balloon. Up to this point, the man was simply obnoxious and kind of drove her crazy with how vague he was; but then came the cold warning. He said he could simply leave her, with only hunger and thirst to keep her company; and it was a terrifying possibility.

“So, what is it gonna be?” the man asked calmly; he began tapping against his chair’s backrest with his fingertips. Silently Frankie observed his hand; it was big and seemed rather rough. He had short, clean nails, and she could see some small scars here and there.

“Can you at least take this thing off my head?” Frankie asked, doing her best to sound defeated and resigned. She was _terrified_; but she refused to simply give up, to betray her father. She refused to be reduced to the role of helpless, sheepish bait. “I… I’d like to stretch my neck a bit.”

The man’s expression softened a bit.

“Okay.” he said, getting up from his chair. “Two minutes. And don’t try anythin’, okay?”

“Okay.” she said, watching him walk up to her.

He took the harness off her head; and Frankie sighed with relief, stretching her stiff neck and moving her head around a bit.

She briefly looked around the room; behind her was an empty metal table, some cardboard boxes - and the _door_.

“Thanks.” Frankie said, deciding to put all of her eggs in one basket. “Hey, uh… C-can I ask you something?”

“I’m not gonna tell you my name, or what am I gonna do to your old man.”

“Can you wipe my nose for me?” she asked, hating every single cell in the man’s body for making her say that. “It’s… Really driving me crazy.”

“...aight.” the man replied after a long pause.

He pulled out a packet of tissues out of his pocket, and took one out; and when his hand was close enough to her face - she outstretched her neck and bit him as hard as she could.

“_FUCK!_” the man screamed, trying to pull his hand out of her mouth; Frankie tightened her bite, doing her best to ignore the salty taste of his blood.

The man moved his face closer to hers, and put his bandaged hand on her cheek, trying to pry her mouth open; she let go of his hand - and headbutter him, smashing his nose with her forehead.

“_FUCK!_” he screamed away, jumping away from her. “YOU FUCKING PSYCHOPATH!”

In response - she bared her teeth and spat his blood out.

“That’s right, fuck off.” she said, watching him run out of the room.

As soon as the door closed behind him - she began to furiously squirm, writhe and thrash around in her bonds. His ropework was tight - but after a few minutes she could feel it’s getting just a bit looser. She was still _very _far from breaking free - but at least she could move her hands a bit.

“Jackpot.” she breathed out quietly, feeling a knot under her fingers.

Moments later - the man came back into the room; and Frankie couldn’t help but grin proudly, seeing that now both of his hands, as well as his nose, are bandaged.

“You’re a fucking _nuisance._” he said, pulling a roll of tape out of one of the boxes under the table.

“Good.” she said as he walked up to her. “I’d rather _die, _than _OUCH!_”

She let out a loud yelp as the man grabbed her long ponytail and yanked it, pulling her head against the chair.

This time - he literally _taped _her head to it, gagging her in the process. For whatever reason, he was considerate enough to avoid getting the tape into her hair; but back then - she was absolutely sure this is the end for her.

“You’re a fucking nuisance.” the man repeated; he didn’t sound angry, just… Tired. Almost amused. “And a smart one.”

“Mmmmmmmmoooouuuuuu.” Frankie mumbled out, trying to tell him to fuck off.

“Let’s get this over with.” he said, patting her on her - uninjured - shoulder. “And smile for the camera.”

***

_“This is… Weird.”_

_“Hm?”_

_“Are you sure that’s Mac Gargan? From what I’ve heard, in his Maggia days Scorps was… Nasty.”_

_“Well, actually…”_

_“...please don’t tell me you just spend an hour telling me about a random handsome man from the Maggia who clearly didn’t want to hurt you just to add AND THEN MAC GARGAN CAME IN.”_

_“No, no, that’s totally Mac I was talking about. I was going to say well, actually from what HE told me - he… Kind of liked me. From the beginning. And all that pointless banter? It was his idea of flirting.”_

_“He was… Flirting… With the daughter… Of someone he was supposed to kill..? Yeah, that sounds more like Mac Gargan I know. At least, I assume he’s bit of a flirty type, with all that snark and… Running on all fours whenever possible.”_

_“...you know Mac hates you, right? He never flirted with you. He was always very serious about those death threats.”_

_“Oh thank god.”_

***

The man took a few pictures of her - and left the room, slamming the door shut with enough force to make the lightbulb above Frankie’s head dangle on the cable it was attached to.

Frankie wasted no time - as soon as the door closed, she resumed her squirming, furiously attacking the knot with her fingertips and nails.

After a few minutes of rolling, pinching, pulling and general plucking - she managed to untie it. The rope was still knotted in other places, and wrapped around her so tightly it initially barely made any difference at all - but the more she squirmed, the more freedom her hands had.

Eventually - _FUCKING FINALLY - _she got her hands free. Quickly she pulled the tape off her mouth; and bent down to untie her legs as well.

Finally - she got up from the chair.

She wasted no time admiring her bleak surroundings - she knew she has to act, and act _fast_. The man could come back any minute - and she wanted to be ready.

“Shit.” she muttered, after cautiously trying to open the door. “Fuck. You left me tied up, you asshole. You didn’t have to _lock the fucking door._”

She sighed, rubbing her forehead with her hand. The migraine she knew was coming had finally entered its full, pulsating bloom; so Frankie gave herself a few seconds of peace.

“Okay.” she muttered eventually, once more looking around the room. “The door opens _outside_, so I can’t just stand in the corner, ‘cause he’ll see me… But I _can _make sure he’s _very _busy.” she muttered to herself, picking up the pieces of rope she was tied up with.

Just as she suspected - the chair she was tied to was mounted to the ground and perfectly, absolutely immovable.

“Fuck.” she muttered when the ropes she was trying to knot together slipped out from her shaking hands. “Alright, there we go.”

Now she had a piece of rope long enough to connect the door knob to the chair - but she was still far from done. After tying tight knots around both the knob and the base of the chair - Frankie turned her attention to the cardboard boxes.

“Oooh.” she cooed quietly, seeing a baseball bat. It was old, and almost falling apart - but it was still a solid, hard chunk of wood. She wouldn’t take it to a baseball game - but it definitely was enough to leave a bruise or two.

The man returned - or rather, tried to - moments after Frankie finished wrapping the bat with tape and leftover rope. She didn’t want it to fall apart after one hit - she wanted to deal some serious damage.

“Shit.” she muttered, dropping the tape onto the ground when she heard the characteristic sound of a key being turned inside the keyhole. “Fuck. Aight.” she whispered, curling up next to the table. The pile of boxes underneath is was tall enough to hide her from the man’s eyes for a moment or two; but first - he had to get back inside.

Which - thanks to the rope - turned out to be bit of a hassle for him.

“God fucking _dammit!_” he groaned at the other side of the door, pulling the knob fruitlessly. “Shit.”

“I know you got out of your seat.” he said finally; and Frankie pursed her lips tightly, stifling a dry giggle after briefly imagining the man kneeling, staring through the keyhole. “And I can see what you did with the rope. Gotta say, I’m impressed.”

_well, buddy, wait till you get inside and meet my new friend. we can’t wait to see what’s inside your thick skWHAT THE FUCK?_

She jumped up in place, hearing a loud _thud_. Cautiously, she peeked over the table; it seemed like the man is trying to break the door down - and judging by how flimsy they were and by how Frankie could already see a dent with a narrow crack at the middle… He was going to succeed sooner than later.

“Fuck.” Frankie muttered under her breath, as quietly as possible. The _thud_s of assaulted door were getting louder and louder; and Frankie began to regret not thinking of moving the table in front of the door as an additional line of defense. Sure, he’d probably flip it over, or slide over it - but it’d buy her an extra second or two. And she’d probably fit into one of the boxes underneath, if she emptied it and curled up; and-

The man finally barged into the room, and Frankie bit her cheeks to suppress a startled gasp. She gripped her bat so tightly her knuckles turned white; and prayed for the man to be too dumb to look behind the table.

“What the fuck?” he said, sounding genuinely puzzled. From her safe corner she could see him walk up to the chair he tied her up to; he was standing with his back to her - and Frankie got up, without making a single sound. Her eyes were fixated on his wide back as she sneaked up to him; and finally - she took a swing-

The man jumped out of the way and her bat hit the metal chair, hard enough to send pieces of wood everywhere. The man then yanked her by her ponytail, pulling her closer; and moments later - her wrists were caught in his iron grip behind her back, and his other arm was wrapped tightly around her. His muscles seemed to be made from steel; and he smelled like-

***

_“...ekhm.”_

_“What?”_

_“I know you eventually married him, but-”_

_“Oh, shut up.”_

***

\- the man smelled faintly like her father; she instantly recognized Bartolomeo’s cologne.

And that - that little thing, that faint note of pinewood - was enough to make Frankie burst in tears.

Her head was _killing _her, she was held hostage by Maggia, and her kidnapper clearly wanted to hurt her father, her _babbo_ \- and it didn’t seem like anybody’s going to come to her rescue. Up until that point she believed Angelo will send someone to find and save her, or that her father will outsmart whichever Maggia don wanted his head; but in that moment - the grim reality of her situation hit her like a train.

So Frankie opened her mouth - and began to sob, her tears streaming down her face.

“P-please” she begged the man, furiously, desperately struggling in his iron grip. “I don’t- I don’t know anything!”

“Then I s’ppose it’s good I’m not tryin’ to interrogate ya.” the man replied harshly as Frankie nearly choked on her sobs. “There, there, you crazy _brat_. You’re ferocious, I’ll give you that. “C’mon.” he added, letting go of her. “There’s someone who wants to talk to you.”

“W-who?” she stuttered out through tears that refused to stop flowing. “D-dad?”

The man sighed and put his bandaged hands in his pockets; after a moment - he threw her a packet of tissues.

“Wipe your nose.” he said, staring at her. “And come on. Hey. You there?” he added when she shut her eyes and put her hands on her forehead.

The high-pitched pain she had been ignoring for the past few minutes had entered its full, piercing bloom. It blurred her vision, and weakened her legs; it felt like someone was poking her brain with a white-hot drill. It was a pain she was well acquainted with; but that didn’t make it any less unpleasant.

It passed by itself after a minute or so; or rather - reduced itself to faint stinging. It was still _there_, and Frankie knew it’s going to be ten times worse in a few hours; but at least she was able to focus on something different than the horrifying pain.

She found herself kneeling on the stone floor of the room; that day she was wearing shorts that exposed her legs from above-the-knees-up; the cold of the floor against her knees made her wince slightly when she moved her trembling hands away from her face.

“I’m… I’m fine.” she said quietly; the mysterious man was kneeling down in front of her, staring at her. For a moment - there was something weird in his eyes, something concerned, something soft, something gentle. 

It vanished so quickly it almost made her doubt her own sanity; perhaps it was just wishful thinking, she thought. I must be really desperate for someone to help me, she thought.

“You sure?” the man asked. “You need a doctor, or somethin’?”

“I’m fine.” Frankie repeated, doing her best to sound sharp and confident.

She got up from the floor; the man remained on his knees.

***

_“Did Scorps propose kneeling?”_

_“I’m not telling you that.”_

_“Oh, come on. Please?”_

_“No.”_

_“Ugh. Fine. I guess I’ll have to stick to the discovery that Mac Gargan apparently loves small fruity pastries.”_

***

“You sure?” he asked again; and Frankie scoffed, looking down at him.

“Yes, I’m _sure_.” she said, rolling her eyes. “But I’ll feel even better the moment I’m out of this shithole and away from _you_. So let’s get this shit over with.”

“Back to your charming self, I see.” the man said, getting up from the floor. “Better don’t try this shit with Macchio though. I’d hate to have to chop your snarky lil’ tongue off.”

Once again - Frankie felt the sudden weakness of her knees.

“M-Macchio?!” she stuttered out, utterly horrified. “A-as in d-don M-Macchio?”

“Yup.” the man said; and Frankie immediately began to wish for the Earth to open under her feet and swallow her whole.

Don Macchio became a don about six months earlier; but not only he was the most inexperienced don - he was also the youngest one. He was far from being the youngest don in history of New York - that title belonged to one of don Costa’s predecessors, don Carmichael, who was crowned at the age of fifteen - but he was still considerably younger than Costa, Cicero, Fortunato and Hammerhead.

That, unfortunately, meant he was more than determined to earn everyone’s respect.

He was already well known for never being above resorting to brutal torture; and people said he took pleasure from pain, that he was constantly coming up with new and cruel methods, that his men were covered in blood so often their skin was permanently dyed red.

“Fuck.” Frankie said faintly, feeling as if she’s about to pass out.”G...Give me a moment.”

The man shook his head.

“No can do.” he said, walking up to her. “We’ve wasted enough time already.”

He picked her up unceremoniously, completely ignoring her vocal dismay; and threw her over his shoulder, putting his hand on her back and wrapping his other hand around her legs, to prevent her from kicking.

“Put me down!” she demanded angrily, hitting his strong back with her shaking fists. “You hear me?! Get your hands off me and put me down!”

“Oh I hear you.” he replied, carrying her out of the room and down a dimly lit, stone corridor. “In fact I think everyone in New York can hear you, so do me a favor and _shut up._”

“HELP!” Frankie screamed in response, squirming in his iron grip. “SOMEONE, PLEASE!”

The man sighed; but this time - he didn’t say anything, instead putting her down.

“Stop yelling.” he said, sounding _very _tired. “Okay? Just shut up. No one’s gonna help you, because no one’s gonna _hear _you. This whole place is soundproof. It’s just you, me, my boss… And some other fucking dude. No idea who, so don’t even ask.”

“...I thought you’re after my father.” Frankie said, taken aback by the man’s resigned, stoic demeanor. “W...What the fuck is going on?”

“Beats me, princess Helen.” he said with a shrug. “I’m not the _brains_ part of the _brains and brawns _equation.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Frankie shot back; the man groaned.

“You’re fucking insufferable.” he said tiredly. “I hope you know that. Anyway, go inside. With luck this is the last time I ever have to be around you.”

That made Frankie’s blood boil - even despite her fear, anxiety, uncertainty. The fact that man had the _guts _to _complain _about her _talking back to him - _her _captor, _her _kidnapper_ \- it was unbearable.

“FUCK YOU!” she screamed, throwing a piece of wood she was holding in her hand for the entire time; it was all that remained from the baseball bat she found under the table. “You think _YOU _have any right to complain?!”

The piece of wood hit his cheek; he winced slightly - but otherwise he didn’t even move a muscle.

Frankie picked the wood up and threw it at the man again.

“You _kidnapped _me!” she screamed, furiously waving her hands. “You took me _god knows where!_ You told me you’re after _my fucking dad_! You _taped me to a fucking chair!_”

“Welcome to Maggia, princess.” the man replied with a shrug; and in that moment - Frankie was moment away from finally leaping at him and tearing his throat out with her sharp nails.

“Can the two of you _shut the fuck up_?” someone suddenly said; Frankie jumped up, looking in the direction of the metal door her kidnapper brought her to; and she froze in place, realizing she’s standing right in front of don Macchio - _the Laughing Man_, as some people called him.

He certainly wasn’t laughing - or even smiling - in that particular moment. In fact - he seemed to be rather angry.

It was incredible how a man barely taller than her and thin like a walking stick could instill a sense of deep, profound dread inside her; it was a kind of dread she was familiar with, one that cast a long, menacing shadow over hundreds of her days. This kind of dread came from knowing what the other person is capable of; and in case of don Macchio, the Laughing Man, the Bloody Don - it came from knowing about people going missing in the dead of the night only to be found dismembered in their own bed a few nights later.

“I’m terribly sorry, signore Macchio.” Frankie said quietly, instantly switching to Italian; it was customary to address the dons in pure Italian, and it was a custom built out of cut off tongues.

Macchio looked at her; he had grey, bloodshot eyes with dark circles underneath. 

“Shit, girl.” he said - in English. “I don’t speak spaghetti.” he said; his nose twitched slightly, pulling up his thin upper lip and exposing his small, yellowish teeth. “But I got that _señor Macchio _part. Come on in.” he added, stepping aside. “Come on, hurry up. I don’t have the whole day just to deal with you and your bitch-ass. And where the fuck are _you _going?” he added, looking at Frankie’s kidnapper who just began to turn around. “Get back here, you fucking _oaf_.”

“Sorry.” the man said sheepishly.

Macchio scoffed.

“What’s your name again?” he asked, scratching the back of his head. “Not yours.” he added when Frankie opened her mouth. “Oaf! What’s your name?”

“Gargan.” the man said; and Macchio let out an ugly snicker.

“Shit, dude, my condolences.” the don said, turning around. “That’s the most _retarded _fucking name I’ve ever heard. C’mon, you oaf. Get inside. Not so fast, you fucking cretin, ladies first.”

Frankie quickly entered don Macchio’s office. She didn’t look around; she was too scared to do so. In her twenty years long life she had faced and interacted with don Cicero and don Fortunato; Vicente Fortunato literally ran the show. He was _the _don - but to her, he was her best friend’s father first. And to him - she was his son’s fiancee; and in that moment, in a dark room god knows where, with don Macchio behind her, afraid and tired - Frankie wished Angelo’s plan was different. She wish their engagement was made public knowledge; maybe then a freshly crowned don wouldn’t dare to lay his finger on her, wouldn’t dare to send his thug after her family.

The air in the dark room - illuminated faintly by a turned-on tv in the corner - was dense and thick and disgustingly, uncomfortably warm. It smelled like weed - and that woody, slightly sweet stench almost made Frankie throw up. She _hated _that smell; but moments later - she forgot about it completely.

“Hey, sis.” her brother said; and for Frankie the time froze as she felt cold fear chill her bones.

The room was stuffy and dark and suddenly s_he was ten again and Takeshi was looking at her and he was standing between her and the door and there was something in his eyes and his smile and it was dark and hungry and strange and he covered her mouth with his hand-_

The man - _Gargan_, Frankie thought, clinging to that small splinter of her current predicament desperately, _Gargan, his name is Gargan - _put his giant hand on her shoulder, pushing her deeper into the room and bringing her back to the present.

“Sup, shithead.” she said, stumbling her way across the dark room and away from Takeshi. In the faint, blue-ish light of the tv she could see the floor is littered with unidentifiable objects. Some of them felt like clothes, some others felt like pizza boxes and takeout containers; and she could definitely feel and hear the characteristic rustling of paper.

“Fucking hell.” Macchio muttered from behind her. “Fucking light, never fucking works… Abra-fucking-cadabra.” he added triumphantly after the light turned on.

The room - much like the one Frankie was locked up in - was also illuminated by a single light bulb, dangling on a cord. Its brick walls were bare, except for a single bookshelf filled with a plethora of chemical equipment; atop of the bookshelf was the tv - small and cubic and visibly rather old. Nearby was a big, heavy, mahogany desk; it looked new, and stuck out like a sore thumb. Atop of it was a pile of ammo and various gun parts.

Apart from the desk and the bookshelf, there was only one piece of furniture in the entire room - a black, leather armchair, currently occupied by Frankie’s older brother. The floor - just like Frankie expected - was covered with garbage; it seemed like there’s a bit of everything scattered around Macchio’s floor - from empty food containers, to needles, to crumbled up newspapers, to balled up, unpleasantly smelling clothes.

Macchio scoffed.

“Language, bitch.” he said, throwing all of the garbage from his desk down onto the ground and sitting on its wooden surface.

“We’re-” Takeshi tried to say; and don Macchio simply flipped him off.

“Keep your fucking mouth shut.” he said firmly. “Or I’ll chop your tongue off.”

Takeshi slowly closed his mouth; and Frankie couldn’t help, but allow for a small, satisfied grin to curl her lips. Hearing someone telling her brother to _shut up _was a rare pleasure; but her smirk vanished as soon as it appeared when don Macchio turned his head to look at her as well.

“Your dumb brother was right, you _really _are easy on the eyes.” he stated coldly; and Frankie froze in place. She could hear the hum of her own blood in her ears, and it was painfully loud; she could barely hear Macchio’s words.

Or rather - she could _hear _what he was saying just fine; but she absolutely couldn’t _understand _it. It was as if she suddenly forgot how to speak English; all she heard was unintelligible gibberish.

“What?” she asked finally, interrupting Macchio mid sentence. She really, truly, honestly hoped she had interpreted the whole situation incorrectly; sure, her relationship with Takeshi was complicated and painful and strained; but surely he wouldn’t just give her to Macchio. Surely Macchio didn’t personally appraise every girl unfortunate enough to land a spot at one of his establishments. Everything that happened up until that point - the man asking her about the mysterious _him,_ kidnapping her, claiming to be searching for her father, then bringing her to don Macchio and her _brother - _made no sense and felt like a bad dream. “I… I don’t…”

Macchio slammed both of his hands against the desk angrily.

“Don’t INTERRUPT ME, YOU CUNT!” he roared; his face turned red and few drops of his saliva splashed against Frankie’s face “Fucking hell! What, are you fucking _retarded_?!”

Frankie pursed her trembling lips tightly, trying to stop herself from bursting into tears.

Naturally - Macchio noticed.

“Oh, boo fucking hoo.” he said, rolling his eyes and grinning maniacally. “Cry me a fucking river, you cunt.” he mocked her; Frankie’s legs gave up and she fell onto her knees, her brain finally - mercilessly, relentlessly, coldly - processing the brutal, cruel reality of her situation.

_your fucking retard of a brother crashed my fucking car, do you know how much it fucking cost me? way more than he can fucking afford, being a broke piece of fucking shit. so you’re gonna help him pay the fucking debt. from now on, you’re fucking mine. you’ll do whatever i fucking tell you to, or your retarded fucking brother gets some more fucking holes in his fucking brain._

“Dad’s gonna be _pissed_.” she muttered, covering her face with her hands. “He’s… He’s gonna…”

“You talking to _me, _cunt?” Macchio barked in response. “One, watch your _fucking _words. Two, your pop’s a fucking _consultant_. He’s not gonna be able to do _shit_.”

“Tell me this is a joke.” Frankie said, ignoring don Macchio’s words; she slowly moved her hands down and looked at her brother. They both had their mother’s jet-black hair, and their father’s freckles; Takeshi had their mother’s pale skin and full lips, and Frankie had their father’s thick eyebrows and bright eyes. They looked different, but also eerily similar; they shared the same blood, they were sculpted from the same clay, and he claimed he loves her. And in that moment, in a poorly lit room, with don Macchio’s bloodshot eyes on her - she felt the full extent of her brother’s so-called _love_. It was a terrible burden, and danger, and she didn’t want it, she didn’t want it at _all_. “You can’t be serious. Y-you can’t.”

“I’m sorry, Fran.” Takeshi replied; his tone was sorrowful and honest, but she looked him in the eye and there was no regret in his eyes, no shame - just a cold spark that made her skin crawl. “I’m… I have no choice. I’m sorry. I… I’ll make it up to you.” he said; as if he was talking about nicking her lunch, or making her do the dishes in his place. “But we’re _family_, Fran. And it’s my life on the line here.”

“Fuck you.” Frankie replied, feeling more helpless and hopeless than ever before. “Fuck you. Fuck you. _Fuck you._”

“Sorry.” Takeshi said, not even the faintest hint of remorse in his eyes.

“Are you two done?” Macchio asked tiredly, once again slamming his hands against the desk. “Great. Fucking hell, you dumb cunt, stop crying. It’s not the end of the world, you retard. Jesus. I thought Asian chicks are supposed to be smart. Gargan!” he added sharply.

“Yeah?” the man asked; and Frankie flinched, realizing he’s standing right behind her.

Macchio nodded towards Takeshi.

“Rough him up and throw him out.” he said, fishing a toothpick out of his pocket. “Don’t kill him though. He’s useful… When he’s not crashing my fucking cars.”

“With pleasure, boss.” Gargan said coldly; and underneath her devastation and fear - Frankie felt a faint sting of satisfaction.

“C-come on, boss.” Takeshi protested nervously; he gripped the armrests of his chair so tightly he almost punctured the cheap faux leather with his fingernails. “R-really? I’m sorry, I seriously am!”

“I sure hope so.” Macchio replied; he sounded bored. “Tough luck though. Your sister might be pretty, but unless she can push a fucking Bugatti Veyron out of her tight cunt… She’s not a repayment. She’s a fucking _advance payment_.”

“I’m sorry!” Takeshi pleaded desperately as Gargan yanked him out of his chair and pushed him towards the door. “Boss! Please”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Macchio muttered to himself, furiously digging between his teeth with a toothpick. “Gargan! Get him out of here. Oh, and fetch me a drink. I could very literally _kill_ for some tequila.”

“Sure thing, boss.” Gargan replied, pushing Takeshi out of the room. “C’mon, you piece of trash.” Frankie heard him say before the heavy, metal door closed behind them. “I’m gonna teach you a thing or ten about pain.”

“Jesus fuck.” Macchio muttered, sounding amused. “Fucking _oaf_. Well, at least that’s off the table.” he added, fixating his eyes on Frankie. “Now… What the fuck should I do with _you_?”

She shrugged silently, suddenly feeling perfectly, impossibly, unnaturally, dangerously calm, almost numb. She was still afraid, and angry, and confused; but there was something separating her from her emotions, a thick wall, a glass window. She could sense them, and she could hear them, and she could _almost _feel them; but her judgement was clear and not clouded by emotions. There was nothing she could do, and she didn’t care. She couldn’t force herself to care.

“Stand up.” he ordered her; so Frankie stood up, put her hands in the pockets of her shorts and practically glued her eyes to the brick wall behind don Macchio.

_don’t look at him don’t show you’re afraid he’ll eat you alive_

“Fuck, you’re short.” he muttered to himself; she could _feel _his eyes on her, stripping her down, evaluating her, analyzing her. “Pretty face… And that’s it. No tits. No ass. Body of a five year old. And I don’t deal in pedo shit… _Yet_. Might be a good moment to start though.” he muttered, scratching his chin. “I’m gonna put you on the waiting list.” he decided finally; and Frankie instantly glued her eyes to his face. “You know what’s an associate in waiting?”

“Yeah.” she said cautiously; in theory - she _knew_. Associates-in-waiting were people unfortunate enough to potentially be of value to the Maggia; but they were never of enough value to be kidnapped and locked up. Instead, they were branded like cattle; the branding was always visible - and sent out a clear message.

_The Maggia is watching._

In most cases, simply branding someone was more than enough to ensure they remain in New York; no one would help a person with a Maggia branding get out of the country. Many people tried to cover their brandings; but Maggia had eyes and ears all over the city. Every branded person was followed and watched at all times; and in many cases - subtly ostracized by the society. Suddenly their friends didn’t have time for them, suddenly their loved ones needed a break, suddenly they were forced to take a long, unpaid vacation at work _for their own good_, suddenly the bartenders and baristas and cashiers all were terribly busy. 

Luckily, as time passed Maggia dons and caporegimes abandoned the - a tad barbaric - practice of _literally _branding their associates-in-waiting like cattle, with branding iron and fire; they abandoned it for the sake of tattoos. 

But that was just theory. Due to her father’s occupation, and due to her being considered a _family friend _by don Fortunato himself Frankie knew a lot about Maggia history. But knowing the actual, gritty reality - that was a whole ‘nother matter.

“Cool.” he said; he slid off the counter and walked around the desk. “So you _are _clever. Now, where the fuck did I put… Ah, there it is.” he said, sounding pleased; and Frankie gulped quietly, realizing he’s holding a tattoo gun. “Alright. Get here. Let’s get this over with, so I can nurse that fucking _bitch _of a hangover.”

Frankie glanced around the room silently; it was, to put it mildly, not very sterile. Definitely not an optimal place to get a tattoo; but Frankie decided to keep that to herself. Don Macchio - as vulgar and crude as he was - was still a _don_; and something told her arguing with a hungover don might not be a good idea.

The process of branding her took about ten minutes; clearly it wasn’t Macchio’s first rodeo with the tattoo gun - plus his signature wasn’t very elaborate, just messy. He inked it at the back of her right hand; and she looked the other way, biting her lip and fighting off the traitorous tears that gathered in her eyes.

_don’t cry don’t cry don’t you fucking cry you useless fucking cretin DON’T FUCKING CRY_

“And… Presto.” Macchio announced finally. “And better take good care of it. Losing a limb ain’t gonna get you out of your bro’s mess.”

“Sure.” Frankie muttered, glancing at him; he smeared some petroleum jelly onto her hand before wrapping it with a bandage. “Can I ask what happens now?”

“What happens now is you thank me for sparing your retarded bro’s life, assure me of your loyalty… And then Gargan takes you home. Better get used to him, and don’t try anything funny. He’s gonna be your watchdog, and you know how dogs are. Poke ‘em too much… And they _snap._”

“Sure.” she muttered again; her heart sunk a bit. Up to that point she was tightly holding onto the illusion of Macchio seeing her as harmless; but as inexperienced as he was as a don - he wasn’t stupid. “Th… Thank you for sparing my brother’s life.” she muttered, staring at her own feet. “I will be loyal.”

Oh, she hated saying that; it made her want to vomit. The words were rough and bitter in her mouth, like crushed glass, like sulfur, like ash; _thank you for sparing my brother, _he made her say. _Thank you for telling your man to rough him up,_ she wanted to say. _You don’t know him like I do. You don’t know what he did to me. And I wish your man fucked kidnapping me up, so you had a reason to kill Takeshi._

“Louder, you dumb bitch.” Macchio said. “And look me in the eye.”

“Thank you for sparing my brother’s life.” she repeated flatly, looking him in the eye; oh, how she wanted to claw his eyes out and set the place on fire and watch it burn. “You have my loyalty.”

“Good girl.” don Macchio said; and Frankie swallowed her pride and bit her tongue, stopping herself from telling him to go fuck himself, from spitting on him.

She flinched when he suddenly slammed his hands against the desk.

“Gargan!” he yelled. “Get your ass in here!”

“I’m here.” Gargan replied, entering the room before Frankie had any time to wonder how was he supposed to hear don Macchio in the first place. “Your tequila, boss.”

“God, you’re dumb. I’m a classy man, you fucking turd. I only drink whiskey.” Macchio replied, sounding annoyed. “And what did you do with that piece of shit?”

“Roughed him up and threw him out.” Gargan said; and when Frankie glanced at him - she noticed some fresh blood on his white shirt and bandages. “He’s gonna make it.”

“If he dies… I’m gonna gut ya like a fish, Gargan.” Macchio said lightly. “And make you watch. And feed you your own guts. Do we understand each other?”

“Nice and clear, boss.” Gargan replied, not at all sounding scared or even cautious. 

“Good boy. Take this bitch home.” Macchio added, nodding towards Frankie. “You know the drill, right, oaf? Make sure she doesn’t skip town. For all I care, you can fucking chain her to bed. I don’t give a shit, just as long as she stays right… Within… My reach.” he finished, poking Frankie in the chest with his long, bony finger.

“Sure thing, boss.” Gargan replied, putting his massive hand on Frankie’s bandaged shoulder. “C’mon.”

He lead her out of the room - and only after the door closed behind him she finally looked at him.

“Don’t touch me.” she said coldly. “Keep your fucking hands to yourself.”

He sighed; but he also took his hand off her shoulder.

“Okay, princess.” he said; and her blood boiled in her veins. “But I still have to blindfold ya. You know. So you don’t know where this place is.”

“Sure.” she said, resigned; she was tired, way too tired to put up a fight. All her screaming, kicking and biting got her nothing; nothing, but don Macchio’s signature on her hand and a slowly blooming migraine. “Wait. Do you know where I live?”

“Of course I know, princess. I cornered you on your way home, remember?”

“Can you at _least _stop calling me that?”

“Sure thing, ma’am Moretti.” he said with a wide grin on his face; and Frankie rolled her eyes, but didn’t say anything.

***

It was a weird, quiet ride home; she spent its first half blindfolded - and she wasn’t even tempted to try and have a peek. She didn’t care anymore; all she wanted was to get home, take a shower and go to sleep. 

She didn’t say a word to Gargan; and he remained silent as well, only breaking the silence after they reached Frankie’s building.

“We’re here.” he announced; and she rolled her eyes.

“I know, jackass. I _live _here.” she said, trying to open the car door; but they remained shut tight. “Fuck. Let me out.”

“In a sec. First… Tell me. Does your brother live with ya?”

“No.” she said, feeling defeated. “And no, I don’t know his address. So don’t even ask.”

“I wasn’t going to.” he said, unlocking the door and taking his phone out of his pocket. “See yourself out. Your shit’s in the trunk.”

“Jackass.” she muttered, getting out of the car; she took her backpack out of the trunk - and finally went home.

She lived with her parents, in their luxurious apartment; the entire block - two apartment buildings, a small, insanely expensive grocery store and an equally expensive bistro - was actually owned by the Maggia; though no one was sure which family actually owns it. Some said it belongs to don Costa, who handled very mundane things, like day-to-day living; some others said it belongs to don Cicero, who handled keeping lawmakers, lawyers and officers in check; while some others claimed it belongs to don Fortunato, whose specialty was working behind the scenes and connecting the families into an intricate web of intrigue and subterfuge. But no one knew for sure; and Frankie couldn’t care less about who really owned the block. All she cared about was having a place to come back to; her own bedroom, a comfortable bed, and sense of comfortable safety.

It was early afternoon when she finally came home; she was tired, and hungry, and knew a migraine of a lifetime is about to take full reign inside of her skull; but at the very least - she was _home_.

“I’m alive!” she announced, opening the front door; her parents were having a late breakfast in the kitchen - and in the cold, soft light of an early fall afternoon they seemed so happy, so content, so _calm._ Her father’s dark, curly hair fell onto his stern forehead making him look like a young boy, and her mother’s naked face was gentle and soft; and they both looked at Frankie with puzzled expressions - and the terrible, hollow, soul-sucking, piercing, cold realization sank in before any of them had said anything.

_they didn’t even notice i was gone_

Defeated, Frankie fell onto the floor, tears streaming down her face; she cried and she screamed and she felt so, so empty.

***

“And that’s how I met Mac Gargan.” Frankie said, curled up on the couch. “We were both… Very different people back then.”

“Yeah.” Spider-Man breathed out. “I… Wow. Not gonna lie, that was… Heavy.”

“I guess.” she said with a shrug. “Still, _very _far from being _the _darkest meet-cute in New York.”

“Maybe so, but just because other people have it worse doesn’t make your life any less… Heavy.” he said cautiously. “And that was just one tiny episode. Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Try me.”

“You said you were engaged to Angelo Fortunato and that his father considered you a family friend. Did he… Do anything about your problem?”

“Obviously he didn’t, as pictured by the fact don Macchio is still alive and kickin’. You know, I actually called Angelo about it. And guess what? It didn’t help. Angel Boy tried to talk to his father - but Vicente just _refused_ to do anything. Said _it’s for our own good_. That the later the other dons learn about me being close to the Fortunatos, the better for both me and Angelo.” she said flatly. “Naturally, he was right, but back then… I didn’t take it very well.”

“I can imagine.” Spider-Man said softly. “I see you don’t have the tattoo anymore. Did you… Pay off Takeshi’s debt?”

“Yeah. And then got the ink removed.” she said, rubbing the back of her formerly-tattooed hand. “Fortunately Macchio was serious when he said he’s not gonna make… An escort out of me. Waiting was the worst part, really. Every day I woke up wondering when is he going to call the favor in and what is it gonna be… And if he’s gonna get rid of me afterwards. And believe me, Spider-Man - I _really _didn’t want to end up at the bottom of the river just because my cretin of a brother scratched Macchio’s car.”

“I thought he-”

“Crashed it? Yeah. So did I. But nope. He only… Scratched it. Which only added salt to injury.” she sighed; and so did Spider-Man.

Francesca’s story still had some holes, and inconsistencies, and Spider-Man was certain he didn’t get the full story; but frankly - he didn’t _want _to. From what he heard, her family life was _very _far from being perfect; and all he wanted to know anyway was what kind of person Mac Gargan used to be.

And apparently - he wasn’t that much different from the Mac Gargan Spider-Man knew and despised. Not very witty. Persistent. Brutal. A complete asshole, through and through.

And yet - she ended up falling in love with him. She ended up _marrying _him. And that…

That was absolutely inconceivable.

“Okay.” he said, doing his best to push away the terrifying image of Mac Gargan as a doting husband, making his _wife _breakfast after a steamy night _oh my GOD peter, i am BEGGING YOU, DON’T THINK ABOUT SCORPION’S SEX LIFE AGAIN _or buying her flowers; or worse - being the _receiving _end of a lovingly made breakfast, or a new tie, or… Whatever married couples get each other as surprise gifts. “Hey, you know I’d help you even if you didn’t tell me the story, right? I’m just… Really curious.”

“I know. But the matter of us knowing two _very _different Macs still remains. I suppose I didn’t meet him at his best.” she mused, absentmindedly toying with the sleeves of a huge sweatshirt she was wearing; and Spider-Man shuddered slightly, realizing it most likely belongs to Scorpion. The size was about right; Mac Gargan was a big, big boy - tall and heavy and terrifyingly strong. Sometimes he’d say he’s going to tear Spider-Man’s limbs off; and every time it made Spider-Man shudder - because not only he knew Mac means it, he also knew he’s definitely _capable _of doing so with his bare hands. _Bare hands _meaning _in his weird and creepy scorpion suit,_ of course. “On one hand I kinda feel sorry for him about having to deal with Macchio, who didn’t believe in the _don-caporegime _system, but on the other hand… He chose this path for himself. He knew who is he working for.”

“Yeah.” Spider-Man said, unsure of how to respond. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I… Can’t say I feel particularly sorry for _anyone _who willingly worked with or for the Maggia.”

“Understandable. I have no doubts Mac did a lot of awful things.” she said, looking away from him. “But… I love him. And I just want him _back_. Even if he ends up in jail, even if he hates me for it… I want my husband back. Even if Scorpion _dies _in the process.”

“Wow.” Spider-Man said, trying to hide the fact the solemn determination in her voice made his skin crawl. “Poetic. Hopefully, this truly will be the end of Scorpion.”

“So… What happens now?”

“I’m not sure yet.” he admitted. “Although… Everything about Scorpion boils down to his armor. So, long story short… I need to get my hands on the blueprint, to know _exactly _how it connects to his brain.”

(_a mechanical exo-armor that greatly enhances one’s strength and agility at the price of their mental stability and basic human decency. sigh._)

“I… Don’t know how to help you with that.”

“And I’m not expecting you to. That’s my job.” he muttered, mostly to himself. “Hm. I guess… Seeing some closeups of the suit could be a good start. Maybe it’d lead me to whoever manufactured it… And it’d be smooth sailing from there.”

“I… Also don’t know how to help you with that.”

“And I’m _still _not expecting you to. I _do _have an idea though.”

“And that is..?”

“Getting to the Raft database, of course.” he announced; she raised her eyebrows. “They have a specialized cell, designed to keep him in check… And it was designed with his _suit _in mind. Which means… Well… It _might _mean _they _took some pics. And hopefully… They didn’t delete it as soon as the warden greenlit the project.” he said excitedly; she nodded, not seemingly not totally convinced. “I see your skepticism, but… Trust me.”

“It’s not like I have any other choice.” she sighed. “Alright. I don’t want to be left in the dark though. I know you probably… Don’t trust me. And it’s fair, considering your relationship with Mackie. But please… Keep me updated.”

“Of course.” he choked out; the way she said _Mackie _made him feel something weird, something soft, something warm. “Gimme your phone number, I’ll text you as soon as I’ve got a lead.”

“Thank you.” she said, putting her number into his contact book. “And I can’t believe I’m saying this, but… Take care, Spider-Man. You’re my only hope.”

“Thanks.” he replied, at the last moment stopping himself from going for a _Star Wars _joke. “Take care as well. I’ll… See myself out.”

He left through the nearby window, avoiding eye contact with Brutus; while the woman was talking - the dog listened, and Spider-Man could see him tilt his head slightly whenever she said _Gargan_. It was kind of cute; but Peter had no doubts about the dog’s willingness to rip his throat out if he as much as looks in the wrong direction.

“Okay.” he sighed to himself, quickly pulling himself up from the ground. “Time to get to work.”

_the police never found scorps after i’ve beaten him and rhino… and rhino was unconscious when they got there. and no one saw him ever since. not even his… ugh… not even his WIFE. dang, this one’s a shocker. scorpion’s wife. mrs gargan. eww. FOCUS. the blueprint. you need the blueprint. you need to know who made his suit. you need to know who made the scorpion… aaaand to make sure there are no radioactive scorpions involved. that’d be bad. but also totally kickass. but mostly very, very bad. okay. let’s do this._

***

“My god.” Frankie sighed, absentmindedly scratching Brutus behind the ear. “He never shuts up, huh, Brutus?”

The dog whined quietly in response, and Frankie sighed again. She remembered how she used to think Mac’s dog hates her; and yet there they were. 

She took him for a quick stroll around the block; she kept glancing at the rooftops and dark corners, in hopes of spotting Mac’s familiar silhouette - but to no avail. It was as if he simply vanished; she’ve heard about his last battle with Spider-Man alongside Rhino - but that was the last time _anyone _had seen him. In a fit of despair, she reached out to his old contacts - or rather tried to, as it seems they have vanished into thin air as well.

In the end, she found herself so tired of waiting for him to come back that she started to seriously consider turning to Maggia for help; but then - the dons and their capos _also _vanished. They went radio silent soon after Hammerhead met his demise; they never ceased their work - but no one knew for sure how to get to them.

(“Sup, Angel Boy. I want to talk to your dad.”

“So do I. Haven’t heard from him… In a while.”)

And just like that, Spider-Man became her only hope; she wasn’t too happy about it - but it was either reaching out to him or still living in this empty limbo, waiting for Mac to give her a sign, _any _sign. 

(His pillow stopped smelling like him about a month ago; but she had his go-to deodorant.)

After giving Brutus his post-walk treat, changing into pajamas and turning the lights off she tried to call him for the hundredth time.

_Gargan here. If it’s important, leave a message after the beep. If it’s not, fuck off. _(Sometimes she’d call him just to hear his voice; this years-old recording gave her comfort - but also hearing it _hurt_.)

“It’s me.” she said quietly; she was laying in bed, and staring at the ceiling. “Come home, Mackie. Or at least tell me to stop calling you. I’m still waiting for you. I can wait a bit longer, it’s fine. I’m good at waiting.”

(“_Did you really… Wait for me when I was locked up?_” “_Of course I did, you dumbass. Now get over here and kiss me._”)

“Sleep tight, Mackie.” she whispered; she could feel her eyes are getting wet from the helpless, burning longing. “I love you.”

She put the phone down, and closed her eyes; a few tears drizzled down her face. She wiped them off angrily; and eventually - she fell asleep.

Just like many nights before - she dreamt of waking up next to him. Of him placing a light kiss on the small scar on her shoulder. Of him taking her into his arms and - quietly, gently - saying _good morning, baby._

(“_I can’t believe you married the dude who kidnapped you._”

“_That’s because you don’t know him like I do._”)


End file.
